


Split Second

by peacefrog



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-18
Updated: 2014-04-18
Packaged: 2018-01-19 20:41:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1483168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peacefrog/pseuds/peacefrog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a split second after he latches on to your wrist, you’re certain he’s going to do it. Finally, he’s going to kiss you. Right there, in front of your brother, you will come to know the taste of his lips on your own. You will understand the electricity of his tongue, the fervent hitch of his breath as he leans into you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Split Second

For a split second after he latches on to your wrist, you’re certain he’s going to do it. Finally, he’s going to kiss you. Right there, in front of your brother, you will come to know the taste of his lips on your own. You will understand the electricity of his tongue, the fervent hitch of his breath as he leans into you. He will take your face into his hands and it will be your salvation. You will not pull away, or pretend this is something you haven’t wanted for so long you can’t even remember a time when your desire for him was not an essential part of your existence.

For a split second you are sure, and then it is gone. He does not kiss you then, instead he inspects your arm, reveals your burden to his troubled eyes. His gaze becomes your sorrow, and you can not explain this one away. You are ashamed, so you pull away. You are ashamed of what you’d hoped he’d do instead.

You leave him there in the parking lot, the warmth of his palm on your shoulder still present beneath the fabric of your jacket.

You lie awake in bed all night, your phone display illuminating your face as you peck out over a dozen text messages that you never send to him. They’re all essentially the same, pathetic apologies, attempts at explaining yourself, bad jokes rife with pop culture references you hope he’ll understand now. The final message you don’t send is a confession, a love letter to his lips spelled out in less than 160 characters. 

You drop the phone on your bedside table and turn your back to it. You toss and turn and lie half awake for 2 hours before the gentle buzzing of the phone causes you to stir. One new message, from Cas, reads:

"Talk to me."

So you do.


End file.
